


Late

by Vae



Category: Kane (Band)
Genre: Community: comment_fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-04
Updated: 2012-12-04
Packaged: 2017-11-20 06:49:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/582482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vae/pseuds/Vae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That sweet, lazy late time after a gig's done, after the bar's closed, home from home in a new city</p>
            </blockquote>





	Late

Some kinds of late don't count as late no more. The kind of late that starts after a gig finishes and the bar closes and the last of the girls fade away. The kind of late that's Chris and Steve leaning against each other as they try and remember which fucking hotel they're going back to this time, Steve's guitar case resting against Chris's knee in the back of the cab, and Chris's hand resting against Steve's dick like it's at home there.

There's a reason for that.

Steve's too tired to protest, or too drunk, or maybe he just doesn't want to draw the driver's attention to it. Maybe he likes it, hell, Chris _knows_ Steve likes it and he likes it pretty damn fine himself. Nice shape to it in his hand, the rising curve pressing against denim softened by time and washing and rubbing against Steve's skin until it doesn't hide a trace of Steve's reaction. The one that has Steve rolling his head and dropping it against Chris's shoulder as heat hardens under Chris's hand.

Slow fumble of unfamiliar cash and familiar guitar and more familiar Steve to get them both out of the car and into the hotel, across the lobby to the elevator, leaning against the side of the car with Steve's arm around his shoulders and Steve's lips finding his neck, yeah, right there, shit, no fair, that's playing real dirty, biting right there. Hair brushes over his face, smelling of beer and sweat and Steve, and if Steve keeps doing that... Christ, thank God, their floor. Almost feels like Chris is leading Steve by his dick to get them both someplace he can know Steve's guitar's going to be safe and Chris can finally get all his focus on Steve and getting rid of those fucking jeans. Denim's soft enough to fall soon as the belt and fly's undone and Chris can prop Steve against the wall, getting a half-protesting murmur that Chris can't resist tasting. "'S okay, darlin'," he murmurs, voice thick with whiskey and smoke and singing, thicker and lower with the slow burning need to get Steve to himself like this, all sleepy and open. "'S okay, I got you."

Got Steve right where Chris wants him, fever-hot skin under his hands as he strips away clothes, kicks them aside where they fall. "I got you," he repeats, and ain't that the truth, works vice versa, always has, can't say which of them's supporting the other but it's always been that way too, that half-step-half-fall that tumbles them onto the bed. No more concentrating on standing, just the rhythm of his hand on Steve's dick and the beat of Steve's breath hot against his face, each one pacing the other, sweeter than any other music they make together to lead, dominant to tonic, final cadence in that choked sigh swallowed from Steve's lips.

Of course, about five seconds later it's Steve that's passed out cold, snoring loud enough to wake anyone in fifty yards save for himself, contented grin stretching those wide lips, and it's Chris that's left with a hard on and no place to go with it.

Too fucking late.


End file.
